


When The Bough Breaks

by Topaz_Eyes



Category: Lie to Me (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, First Time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-22
Updated: 2010-01-22
Packaged: 2017-10-06 13:42:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Topaz_Eyes/pseuds/Topaz_Eyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will you make a smoother landing when you break your fall from grace?</p>
            </blockquote>





	When The Bough Breaks

**Author's Note:**

> Summary from "One Safe Place" by Mark Cohn; title from the old childhood rhyme. References "Do No Harm." Much love to [](http://lauriestein.livejournal.com/profile)[**lauriestein**](http://lauriestein.livejournal.com/) for beta'ing!

Gillian's just turning the key in her front door when her cell phone rings.

Her phone's easily enough accessible, stashed in the front pocket of her purse, though she can't reach it anyway because her arms are full of freshly dry-cleaned clothes, silk blouses and dresses and suits off-gassing in their filmy wrappers. She manages to open the door and drop the load on the sofa, but the phone stops warbling by the time she pulls it from her bag.

She flips it open to check the caller ID and frowns at the number. "Damn it," she mutters. It's been a long week, a longer case, and wrangling Cal the whole time has sapped most of her energy. Her feet are tired, she just wants to sit down and relax: take a long, hot bath and read until she falls asleep.

Even though she hasn't heard from Alec since he'd sold their former townhouse in DC, remarried and moved to Bethesda. Over a year now, she realizes with a start. Has it really been that long?

Luckily his call went to voice mail. Thank goodness for small graces. Handle this first, Gillian thinks, then you can hop into the tub. She takes a calming breath and punches in the access number.

"Hi, Gill." Alec's voice, warm and charming, flows over her as it always has. Even after their divorce she still feels a wistful twinge when she's reminded of its absence. This time she can hear the definite pride and excitement bubbling beneath. "I'm sorry I missed you. Uhm... I hoped I'd be able to talk to you in person about this, but, well, I'm sort of in a hurry right now. I just wanted to let you know..."

Her stomach sinks with dread, then bottoms out as she listens to the rest of the message.

Her hand trembles around the phone when she lowers it to snap it shut. Her mind goes numb, and all plans for her evening vanish with it. The furnace cuts in with a faint hum and air blows through the vents, but for a few seconds she struggles to breathe through the sudden tightness binding her chest.

The moment passes, though the vise remains, and it's matched by another dull ache behind her eyes. She raises a hand to her mouth, nibbles on the edge of her thumbnail, trying to distance the swirling haze of Alec's words which she does not want to connect together as she wonders what to do now.

After an agonized minute she pries her phone open again and hits number one on her speed-dial. Off work now, chances are even it'll go straight to his voice mail, and it does. She's disappointed but she still clings to the familiar clipped words on the other end.

"Cal Lightman, leave a message."

She draws a deep breath. "Hey, Cal. I need to talk to you about something--can you come over when you get this?" Gillian's proud of herself for keeping her tone steady, even light, under the circumstances. "Thanks."

She closes her phone again, wraps her arms around her middle, and stares around her living room. It's all cream and beige and neat and orderly; the only real slice of color comes from the dry-cleaning resting on the sofa, cobalt and fuchsia and aquamarine, and it's blunted by the plastic. She can't remember if Cal has Emily tonight or not. He might be over right away, or in a few hours; or he might not come over at all. She expects the latter even as she hopes for the former--just as long as he arrives.

While Gillian waits she microwaves a frozen lasagna dinner, but leaves it untouched on the kitchen table. She pours a glass of water, drinks, then pours a glass of white wine and immediately forgets it on the counter. Wandering back, she spies the forgotten dry-cleaning, totes it to her bedroom, hangs it in her closet. She selects a romance novel from the stack of paperbacks on her night table, heads back to the living room and sits down on her couch to read. (Or re-read, for what must be at least the third time.) The model on the cover is Fabio-perfect, all flowing hair and ripped abs, but when she opens the book, the words on the dog-eared pages are meaningless squiggles.

An hour or so later of turning and staring blankly at the pages, she starts at the firm and familiar rap on the door. She looks up with relief--and the beginning of trepidation. She doesn't know what to tell him, if anything--she can barely admit it to herself, really. Either way, they both know she's a terrible liar.

She just wants his company tonight, not his damned prying. So she pastes on a bright smile, making sure her eyes crinkle to match, and opens the door.

Dressed in black, Cal slouches in the shadows beyond the porch light, hands in pockets, only his face visible. "Hi, darling."

"Hi yourself."

He's already tilting his head at her, scanning her face, but she leans casually against the frame, keeps her expression steady; after a couple of seconds he relaxes. First test passed. "Come in," she adds.

He pecks her cheek as he saunters past. By the time she shuts the door against the night and joins him, he's already sprawled on her sofa, filling her space with his presence. He picks up her abandoned novel and narrows his eyes at Fabio on the cover. "God, Foster, you're still reading this bloody sentimental rubbish?"

It's an old jab, so old it should be harmless. "Romance is a valid literary genre," Gillian replies. "Just because you don't believe in happy endings, doesn't mean the rest of us can't."

This time though, the familiar retort sounds hollow to her ears, and she purses her lips. Luckily Cal doesn't notice; he's still scowling at the book. "All passion and--and rose petals and happily-ever-afters," he continues. "Doesn't anyone think about what happens after the book ends?"

He doesn't know, _he doesn't know about the phone call_, she reminds herself sternly. He'd be appalled at himself if he did, so she can forgive his thoughtless blather. Still, he needs to stop before he shreds her to pieces. "Have you eaten?" she says, hoping it'll quiet him. "Do you want a drink?"

"Had a sandwich," he says, "but a beer would be good, cheers. I'll get it," he adds, heaving himself forward.

She remembers the cooling lasagna in the kitchen. "No, I will," she says, and escapes.

She shoves her dinner in the fridge and plucks a bottle from the six-pack she keeps there just for him; spies her forgotten wine glass and brings it with her. When she returns to her living room, Cal's flipping through the book's pages.

"Do you know Emily's reading this stuff now? Filling her head with this mindless tripe? I suppose you and Em trade books behind my back too."

"Shut up, Cal." She means it as a light rebuke but it comes out sharper than she intended. Damn.

He looks up, puzzled. "Sorry, I'm just tired," she covers, and hands him his beer. "It's been a long week."

"I will drink to that," he agrees, saluting her with his bottle, and he tips it back.

She curls up beside him, feet tucked under her, and sips from her glass. The wine is warm and tastes flat, rests sour in her stomach. But it's something to do while she tries to figure out where to go next. Cal drops the book and stretches out, resting his beer on his thigh. Casually he scoots an arm behind her along the back of the couch.

Any other time it would be a comfortable silence, sitting together like this, unwinding with their respective drinks. They'd always fit well together that way; often they didn't need to talk, they just needed to be there, and this is what she's been counting on tonight. She watches surreptitiously as he takes pulls from the bottle, how his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows.

Cal finishes his beer; she takes his bottle and her barely-touched glass and sets them on the table in front of them. He tilts his head back, exposing his throat, and closes his eyes. As he does, the thought sparks at the back of her mind.

She tries to douse it, but it flares, kindles to a slow burn. It's always been smoldering there between them, what with their casual flirting and occasional displays of jealousy. They'd worked around it for years. But tonight she's too weak to fight it off. She needs distraction, dammit, and he's here.

Gillian pulls his hand into her lap and strokes the back of it, studying the network of old scars crisscrossing his knuckles as she continues her reverie. She knows just how unfair it is to use Cal like this. He's wanted her for a long time, though he's always been content to hang back, content to accept what they already had. So he'd be right to resist her advances now. How often has she brushed him off in the past, for far less than what she'd be asking...?

No. She either forgets herself tonight, or she sobs brokenhearted into her pillow for the next three days.

_I'm so done with tears now._

Gillian looks up; he's turned towards her with heavy-lidded eyes. She reaches up, traces down the pulse line in his throat, up to his ear and back. His voice drops an octave, grows husky. "Foster?"

The reckless words tumble from her mouth. "Have sex with me, Cal."

She's never seen anyone startle awake so fast. "What--what did you just say?"

She holds her head high, peers directly at him. "You heard me. Sex. A fuck, a shag--I want a cock in me tonight."

He blinks in utter disbelief. "And mine just happens to be convenient?"

Though he is interested, she sees a slight blush rise and his pupils dilate; then he collects himself and points a finger at her warily. "Wait--this isn't just--some sort of test? You're not just pulling my leg?"

Gillian shakes her head. "I am completely serious about this." Then she cups his face in her hands, leans in and kisses him hard.

His mouth parts of its own accord and she darts her tongue along his upper lip; he tastes of onion, garlic and ale. He can't repress a small moan when she wraps her tongue around his. She keeps deepening it until he returns her kiss in kind, pressing even harder, and Gillian loses herself for a minute in the pressure of his lips, the rasp of his stubble on her chin.

Cal pulls back for air, leans his forehead on hers. "You are serious," he murmurs in wonder. He then draws back, grabs her wrists, holds her hands in his own. "Why, love? Why now?"

"Does it matter?" Gillian smiles, shrugs one shoulder. She knows she's evading, but right now this is all she has. "Isn't it enough of a reason, that after all this time I'm finally saying yes?"

She does not miss the flash of _It's been bloody long enough_ on his features. But he still knows something's not right. "The line, darling," he reminds her in a rough voice. "If we do this, we can't ever go back. I don't want you to regret it in the morning."

When he's not being a self-absorbed prick, Cal really is chivalrous to a fault. It's one of the things she loves best about him, though right now all it's doing is fuel her desperation. She struggles, and fails, to repress the begging in her voice. "Please, Cal. I need this." _I need to know I'm still a woman._ "I won't regret it."

Gillian can smell the heat radiating from him. She feigns calm under his appraising gaze, as terror attempts to claw its way out of her gut. If he denies her now--she's always managed to be upbeat in the face of rejection before but dear God, please, _not tonight_. Not on top of--her heartbeat roars in her ears and she tries not to shake.

His expression hardens then, and he reaches for her. Maybe he's already figured it out, calculated the odds and decided it's worth the risk. Maybe he's just humoring her, maybe he's just seizing his chance now it's freely offered in front of him. She doesn't care what his reason is. Only as long as she feels this rush of desire when he encircles her shoulders and crushes her mouth with his again.

Presently Gillian rises, takes Cal's hand, pulls him up to standing; she leads him to her bedroom, next door to the guest room where he's spent his share of nights with that wall between them. But he lingers at the threshold, looking uncertain. The psychologist in her knows its symbolism; she tugs on his arm to bring him in before either can second-guess themselves any further.

They move to stand beside her queen-size bed with its peach-colored bedclothes. Gillian reaches to switch on one bedside lamp which casts a hazy glow; she then half-turns away from him, pulls down the sheets and comforter. Still half-turned, she undresses. The zip of her dress whispers open; she peels the cap sleeves off her arms and the dress drops to the carpet, forming a burgundy pool of jersey fabric at her feet. He watches, posture slouched and face neutral, his pupils blown with desire, as she unfastens and removes her lace bra. She then hooks her thumbs into her silk panties and pulls them down to join the clothes on the floor.

Gillian straightens and turns to allow him a full view. She blushes and goosebumps rise when his gaze sweeps over her, first lingering on her breasts, then lower. When their eyes meet again she can barely acknowledge the sheer hunger in his expression before he pulls her flush against him.

She notes the surge in his groin with satisfaction. He cups her buttocks, rotates his hips as he greedily kisses her cheeks, eyes, ears; the thrill climbs to a steady thrum as they grind together. His hands smooth over her body, long, drawn caresses over her arms, breasts, back; his tongue twines in her mouth, and she lets out a shameless moan.

Presently Gillian breaks their kiss. "You're overdressed," she says against his mouth.

"Am I, now?" His hands slide up and down her back, brush the mole on her left shoulder, make her shiver.

"You should really do something about it."

"Yeah, I should." But instead he begins to plant a line of warm honey kisses along her jaw towards her earlobe. "Though I could eat you up just like this," he murmurs in her ear. "Make you come with my mouth. Would you like that, darling?"

Oh God, the image of him bent with his head between her legs makes her weak-kneed, but she has to prove something to herself first. "Cal," she admonishes. "Take your clothes off. Or let me."

He huffs but acquiesces readily, drops his arms and steps back to give her room to work. She begins to unbutton his shirt by touch, her fingers nimble over the buttons. She loves the slightest tremble in his shoulders, his long, slow exhale as she pushes the black cotton off. Freckles spray his pale skin, his chest has a few scattered hairs; she slides her palms down, raking him lightly with her nails. His hiss of pleasure adds to her confidence; she purses her lips together in concentration at his belt buckle and the fly of his jeans.

Yet her resolve falters and she hesitates when she has his jeans and briefs halfway down his hips. Wanting this is not wrong, she reminds herself firmly, all her speeches about "the line" notwithstanding; this is her moving on from her past, this is them moving towards a future together, whatever it may be. They can discuss and renegotiate tomorrow. Tonight she needs his comfort, his warmth and his body, around her and in her.

Then his hands cover hers, and together they push the clothing the rest of the way down his hips to form its own denim pool on the floor. Her breath catches at the sight of his erection arcing up from its thatch of auburn hair. Blushing, she darts back to his face and giggles as he waggles his eyebrows at her.

"You like what you see?"

She pokes his chest just over his heart. "You're--you're incorrigible, do you know that?"

"I've been called worse."

"I can't argue there."

"Was that supposed to be an insult, love?"

"I can list those worse names for you. How about alphabetically?"

He snickers and shakes his head and pulls her against him again. Gillian burrows into the hollow between his neck and shoulder, inhales his scent, salt and clean sweat and arousal, as she feels him snake a hand between them. His palm, warm and broad, smooths over her belly, then dips lower, over her mound and between her legs. She arches and gasps at his touch; she's so wet his fingers glide effortlessly as they tease and explore her folds, and she whimpers when one enters her.

Another worries her clit, and she has to brace herself on his shoulder under the sweet onslaught. Not to leave him neglected, she reaches between and grasps him too, heavy and firm in her hand. She pulls tentatively and he thrusts forward in her fist with a strangled groan. She pants into his neck as they slowly work each other, stroking and rocking into each other's hands.

"This might be more comfortable on the bed," Cal reminds her after a while, his soft puffs of air cool on her overheated skin.

"Okay."

Cal withdraws, takes a half-step back--God, she's almost dizzy as she watches him slowly lick her wetness off his fingers, his eyes drifting closed as he savors. His erection juts out; this is how much he wants her, and she shivers, knowing she's the reason. He slides onto the bed, draws her down with him, pulls her into a kiss; she tastes a ghost of herself on his lips.

"I want to go down on you," he murmurs.

Heat surges again at the thought of his tongue lapping at her clit, and oh, she's sorely tempted, but she decides against it. "Next time," she replies, startling herself with those words, the truth behind them. She notes how his expression darkens, then alights as he processes their meaning.

"You mean that." A statement, not a question.

"Yes," she says. She then rolls him on his back, nudges his legs open and kneels in between to fist his erection. She looks up at his questioning gaze, licks her lips, reaches up and cups his jaw with her free hand.

"Let me do this, Cal," she murmurs. "Please."

Slowly she drags her fingers down his neck, his collarbone, stops to flick his nipples; as they trail over his abdomen, she listens to the growing raggedness of his breathing. He bucks when she envelops him with her mouth all at once.

"God, Foster," he gasps, "give a bloke some warning."

Gillian smiles around his erection, then tightens her lips around his shaft. One, two more surges of blood and he's fully hard. She rolls her tongue lazily around the head, slides up and down, and she delights in his groan, feels it all the way to her toes.

Though it's been a while: after just a few minutes her jaw begins to hurt and her neck objects to the awkward angle, but she manages. Cal's certainly not complaining. He's trying not to thrust upwards; he holds her head firm, his fingers play with her hair. His thighs tense, his abs tighten, sweat begins to bead on his forehead and at the hollow of his throat, and he's utterly breathtaking in his bliss.

_Ohsoclose_ she could bring him to release with just a few flicks of her tongue if she wanted, but that would prove nothing beyond what any common whore could do. That's not why she asked him into her bed in the first place. She releases him and looks up.

"I want you in me now," she says as she moves to straddle him.

"There's a condom in my wallet--"

There are condoms in her bedside drawer too, but pregnancy's the least of her worries, so she guides him into her, sinking down in one sure fell before he can blink. He bucks, his mouth gapes open: the rarest of sights, Cal Lightman caught utterly off-guard, and Gillian feels wild elation at the feat.

He fills her, hot and thick and God it's so _tight_. Cal steadies her, hands on her hips while she takes the time to get used to his cock inside her. He's spread out beneath her, neck and chest flushed, lips glistening; head tilted back and throat exposed, the universal sign of submission and utter trust.

She wonders wistfully why they just hadn't fallen into bed years ago. Maybe if they had succumbed then, she wouldn't have to hide from her failure like this now. With Cal, maybe she wouldn't have failed at all--

_Screw it_, she thinks. She's going to lose herself in him tonight. She rocks tentatively, and God, it's perfect, the way his hips sway with her. He's thought of this moment, she thinks as she hears his shaky exhale. He's dreamed of it more than once (_probably got off on it too_), and that fills her with pride.

Then she looks down at where they're joined, thinks of how everything, everything in life ultimately reduces to this act in one way or another.

It should be a hell of a lot more joyful than it feels right now.

It should be more romantic, echoes of passion and rose petals and happy endings. Not this desperate search for consolation in Cal's arms because her own small version of happily-ever-after will never come to pass.

"Darling, what's wrong--"

"I'm okay," Gillian cuts him off. Her face has betrayed her and he's caught her lie, but she can't afford to let him in on why yet, not when she's this close to breaking. She caresses his cheek, trying to distract both of them. "Ssshh."

But as aroused as he is, his gaze still flickers over her face, that insatiable need to read everyone and everything. His brow furrows in that familiar, maddening expression as he tries to suss out her truth.

"What is it, love?"

His voice is so gentle and insistent--so full of love, _dammit_\--she furiously blinks back tears. She's not going to fall apart though, not now, not here. She takes a deep breath, gathers her strength. "Don't talk," she replies as she leans down, her hair forming a citrus-scented curtain around her face. "Please."

She captures his lips in a needy kiss to cut off any further protest, slips her tongue inside his mouth, and he's blessedly silent from there on. He slides his hands up from her hips to cup her breasts, squeezes them gently; breaking their kiss, she raises herself up, braces herself on one elbow so he can take them in his mouth. His tongue rolls around her nipple, teasing it; she whimpers when he tugs at it, supports his head as he kisses and suckles each in turn. She presses her lips to his damp forehead, her fingers tracing the shell of his ear, his temples. His stubble rasps her skin when he nuzzles between her breasts; she revels in the novelty of its prickling.

She knows everything else about this man, good and bad: his loyalty and devotion, the secrets he keeps, his heartaches. His body is only the logical next step, the last step over the line she's hid behind, the line she's used to keep him at bay for far too long. She bears down, his hips rise to meet her; her world starts to coalesce to twining tongues, the creaking mattress, and the sweet, growing ache in her pelvis--

The jolt of his fingers caressing her clit shocks her back into herself. Still her paragon of chivalry, he plans to bring her off first. Any other time she would welcome it, but this isn't about her pleasure, at least not like that. She releases his mouth, forms the word "no" against his lips. Before he can ask why she clutches his shoulders and rolls them both onto her back.

Her legs slide up so he can settle in between. As he does, his penis slips out; the loss of contact is near to unbearable and she guides him back in frantically, pumps her hips upwards to meet him. He stares at her, his eyes unfocused and glassy. He's coming undone for her, because of her, and the power of that knowledge thrills her to her core.

She sets their rhythm hard and fast, urges him on, wills him silently not to hold back. She needs him to let go first, she needs this victory, because she's already failed as a mother and a wife. She can not afford to fail as a lover, not tonight.

Slick with exertion, Cal rests his head in the hollow between her neck and shoulder, panting in time with each stroke, his breaths hot and humid in her ear. Soon his thrusts change, stutter erratic. "I'm going to come, love," he gasps against her skin.

She recognizes that warning tone, the one Alec used toward the end, before he pulled out to leave her empty and wanting. Not this time. She grabs Cal's buttocks, pulls him in as far as she can, locks her legs around him. He raises his head, looks at her as he stills, his mouth an "o" of equal parts shock and bliss.

Their gazes lock in that moment, she has all of him at her mercy now--she rolls her hips and a heartbeat later he comes like a shot. Each spasm tears a groan from him which settles in her bones with each burst. _Yes_. This is her success and no one can take it from her. Triumph sets her body tingling, stokes the fire between her thighs.

Gillian stiffens as his semen pools inside her, as his shudders recede; she then surges forward, grinds against his pelvis, desperate for her own release. Cal pulls her close, angles inside her, _ohgodyes_ right _there_, and she gasps and thrusts and moans as he hits that sweet spot over and over, until the blinding white heat rises up and consumes her too.

She trembles violently as she comes down, only faintly aware of the tears sliding from her eyes and trickling down her temples. She lifts her hand up, threads her fingers through Cal's damp hair at the nape of his neck.

His weight rests on top of her, pressing her into the mattress; his sweat is slick on her skin and his musk envelops her, floods her senses. He's warm and solid and real in her arms, she thinks, and if only this could last, because she dreads the inevitable moment when Cal will slip out. She clenches her muscles to postpone it as long as possible. Her legs quiver with the effort; it's been far too long, she's going to hurt in the morning, but she knows that'll be nothing compared to what she's trying to fight back right now.

Of course it can't last though, and her reality seeps in as it must; despite her efforts, Cal shifts and rolls off onto his side facing her, his hand resting broad on her flat belly. His release trickles out, pooling sticky between her legs, and it hammers her loss home. All the power she's felt up to now drains away with it; she's utterly bereft, naked and alone, and she shivers uncontrollably in the cold air.

Cal takes one look at her, switches off the lamp, pulls the sheets and blankets over them, and gathers her close. She listens to his heartbeat, strong and steady under her ear as he smooths her hair.

"What's wrong, darling?"

Spoken gently enough, but from his tone she knows, he's not going to let this go anymore. She takes a shuddering breath. "Alec called earlier tonight," she says.

Cal stops stroking her hair. "And what happened?"

Gillian still tries to fight back, but he's always been able to wait her out, and soon enough her strength falters under his expectant silence. The weight of sorrow closes, and she feels herself start to give in to it. "He--he wanted to let me know--his wife gave birth to a little girl this morning."

Miserably she waits for Cal to put the pieces together. When he does, his embrace tightens and she feels his pained intake of breath. "I'm sorry," he whispers, sounding stricken. "I'm so sorry."

Her lips quirk in a mirthless smile against his skin. "Me too."

She huddles in the circle of his arms and squeezes her eyes shut. He begins to smooth her hair again; and as he does, the ache of loss banded like a vise around her heart expands, wells up into her throat, and finally escapes.


End file.
